


Natty Boh or How Dana Scully Gave Up on Occam's Razor and Learned to Love Charm City

by Jai



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street, The X-Files
Genre: Detective Work, Gen, character-driven, observational and character humor, thriller-suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:06:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jai/pseuds/Jai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baltimore.  1997.  The complicated lives of the city's Homicide unit, who work Lt. Al Giardello's shift, go sideways with a "Red Ball" involving the vicious killing of a celebrity surgeon, the giddy murder admission from a petite attractive red-head with government connections and the arrival in town of a tall dark-haired, distant FBI agent who claims the clearly brilliantly insane killer is his partner and that unless they can get through to her, they're all doomed by an inexplicable "darkness" that has pursued him to Charm City.  And then another FBI turns up at the Homicide unit's office; her name is Dana Scully and she has a weird story to tell and is searching for the man she claims is impersonating her partner, Fox Mulder, who disappeared under very mysterious circumstances....</p><p>This story is told in 5 parts, akin to the Acts in an "hour long" television drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natty Boh or How Dana Scully Gave Up on Occam's Razor and Learned to Love Charm City

**Author's Note:**

> This story is to be read (and hopefully this comes through in the writing) in the docu-naturalistic style of "Homicide" in mind, and, more like "Homicide" (and less so, "The X-Files"), there is sometimes a more meandering quality driven by the characters and their dialog and with less interest in the plot, though the plot, in this case, is complex and complicated and strange as in the best episodes of "The X-Files."

Natty Boh or How Agent Scully Gave Up Occam’s Razor and Learned to Love Charm City  
(based upon Homicide: Life on the Street created by Paul Attanasio, Tom Fontana and David Simon, The X-Files created by Chris Carter – SPOILERS)

 

part 1 - - FORGET THE WHY

March, 1997… Fell’s Point… Baltimore, Maryland…

Sometimes – most times– a clusterfuck’s just a pay check plus over time. Other times, when it’s an evisceration dumped behind a Dundalk dive and the vic’s a real citizen, not a fiend but an internal medicine man from John Hopkins and your best suspect is on the government teat and it’s during more than just a run of the mill drug war over Tater double dealing Count Funkadelic on his triple gold star bags, then it’s a Red Ball.

Sergeant Kay Howard, coming off an impossible perfect year of turning red to black on the Board, outdoing even the more eloquent and flamboyantly aggressive Frank Pembleton, recently recovered from a stroke and still a bulldog, knew as well as any natural born police, that in a killing the “why” barely mattered. Give her the “where”, the “what” and the “how” – and, if it’s immediately obvious, the “who” – and the “why” you can leave to a greenhorn steno pool Uniform who thinks they’re Sherlock Holmes, an ADA who’ll make you ask “why” if it means it’ll buy ‘em a stet that’ll allow 'em to work a less weak sister than your yo on a corner from three that morning and that nobody’ll miss except maybe his moms – and that’s 'til just after the funeral – or, if the yo’s passing is marked by a de facto trial, a jury that expects the cast of NCICSI Hampden to explain away a quick and easy “why” so they will be home in time before the Ravens lose on Sunday. You’ve been meaning to catch a game at the field yourself next season.

But a Red Ball’s a priority emergency case the brass needs a “why for”, for the press, the tourists in the Inner Harbor and Hizzoner who’s probably running again…. in two years. Kay Howard had been bumped up to Shift Sergeant months ago, through hard work and a notably high test score for a job she thought she wanted but now she never had to even think about any “why”, or of any case in any detail, just answering phones, filling more paper work and looking not for stone cold killers but her missing detectives to hand out assignment addresses on scratch cards and answering to Gee, her First Shift Lieutenant, an oft-glaring Al Giardello.

In the office, she found an old sick looking black drunk hancuffed to a table moaning, “Didden kill nobody, no suh,” as two uniforms, Yosh and Overmeyer nodded at her over shift change java and Judy arranged manila envelopes from one table to another. There were a couple of lab techs stealing Homicide’s donuts from the coffee room and a trio of witnesses, lying sacks of shit, sitting in sullen silence in the goldfish bowl.

“Hey, Munch,” she asked the only detective at his desk, “What’re you doing?”

“Working, Sarge. Making a comfortable living wage and not much else. Hey, you see this?" John Munch held up his newspaper. "My brother’s running special ads for his funeral home the same page as the chain restaurants. Maybe I should start doing that, y'now… "Have an untimely death you want solved pronto – insurance money hanging in the balance…? Kill somebody and need a good listener with note taking skills?”.“ Munchkin was tall and thin, natural deadpan, given to dark suits and dark thoughts, thin ties and matching prescription shaded glasses. He was known around the unit as a good bunk and a hard trench warrior when he could find the effort, given to mock outbursts in the interrogation room, "The Box”, and for pointing out to the others a half-consumed bottle of Dewars' in the Colonel’s desk drawer that Munch had himself claimed loudly he’d pulled off full from a skel not twenty minutes before.

“That’s great, John. Your brother still getting your business?”

“I’ve passed along a card to the bereaved widow on occasion. Look, I deposed for Danvers before I got here." He held up some typed forms, adding, "And I got my paper on my man Clayvon. ’ K, Kay?”

“Then go grab Brodie, make sure he takes the cover off his camera lens and head on over to Dundalk. This one’s got your name all over it,” she said, slipping him a scratch card he glanced at.

“Jesus, ain’t quite 'billytown, but close. At least motorheads have heard of basic hair product– Wait, I know this place, The Zu? What happened to the good old days of black on black crime? Brodie! Come on! Sargeant Kay just handed me a slam dunk.”

Mike Kellerman may have been with the unit for over a year and a half but he was still the new guy until the bosses said otherwise and allowed Sergeant Kay and Gee to hire an actual new guy. He was young for Homicide, good looking in that “Good Morning, America” way, with open features and boyish red hair. He was a fiend about staying in top shape, more appropriate for his previous assignment to Arson, though his vices were universal to any cop; too many women since the angry divorce, never enough drinking and smokes he was always giving up. He prided himself on being the best cop he could be, something his delinquent brothers had recently teased him about – his yearly childhood choice of Halloween costume, “A cop!” – but it might have been too much pride that landed unfounded corruption charges on him earlier that year and, briefly, suspension to desk duty which didn’t remove the taint of sin even when he was cleared. Jesus, even his dependable brothers in the murder police still let their doubts about him show through and he channeled his anger into pursuit of Luther Mahoney, a Charm City drug kingpin, notorious for his upstanding community work and a proven untouchable.

“Aw, Jesus. Would you look at that? Actually, no, please don’t,” Kellerman groaned. “It’s for the best if you don’t, you’ll just get more weird ideas about whitey.”

Detective Meldrick Lewis, Kellerman’s more experienced partner since his joining Homicide, slowed their standard white Cavalier, its tell-tale oversized antenna waving in back, fixing Mike with his wide, hinkey grin. He had to see this, whatever it was – if only to make Kellerman nuts.

In an alley barely off the walk, a man too old for his mullet, was crouched over, legs apart, dirty denims bunched around his ankles. He was defecating, In front of him, on her knees, was a haggard woman probably in her forties – looked sixty – and she was deep-throating him… violently.

“Ha, ha!” Meldrick crowed. “A man don’t get the opportunity to see something like that everyday." He squealed the Cav to a stop, jammed 'er into rear and backed up crazy-fast. Around the unit, Meldrick wasn’t known as an accident waiting to happen – he’d already had nearly every car accident conceivable. But most of them found his tolerance for almost anything a laugh.

"Meldrick… come on…,” Kellerman half groused, half whined.

“Dig this,” Lewis answered, leaning across his partner. “Roll down your window, bunk." Kellerman groaned, frowning as he rolled down the car’s passenger-side window. 

"You better have your A-game on. We got a body getting stiffer.”

Detective Meldrick Lewis called out the window into the foul alley. “Excuse me, sir…. Uh, ma'am? We’re new in town, tourists as it were, and we’re hoping you could point is in the direction of the big aquarium we’ve heard so much about." Ole Mullet moaned painfully, angrily, gestured them away with a wild flapping arm.

Mike couldn’t hide his sick appreciation of Meldrick’s joke – pure cop humor – and held up a hand to his partner then pointed to himself. Lewis cleared the window space for Kellerman.

"In that case, sir, could you recommend a good local hotel with a restaurant, reasonably priced.”

Beside him, Lewis snorted an appreciation of his partner’s sense for detail. “Reasonably priced…”

Old Mullet pushed the woman before him aside – she waved the bird at him, cackling – and, shouting curses, charged the cops’ Cav. He brandished a greasy old bottle of Jack. For no damn good reason that they laughed about for days after, the detectives panicked– “Go, Meldrick, go!” urged Mike as Meldrick jammed it into gear. Falling behind them, Old Mullet heaved the bottle, a weakass throw that bounced the bottle off the bumper of the cab, rolling to the curb, unbroken.

Their laughs settled as Lewis turned a corner, the crime scene far ahead – patrol car lights dancing pinpricks. Mike stared at the window, passing worn down tenements, boarded storefronts. 

“These people don’t have to live like this," he grumbled.

"I dunno,” Lewis answered distantly. “Probably not. But they do. Po’ dumbass white trash.”

Kellerman glanced at Meldrick. “I’ve said it before. You are a racist.”

Lewis laughed shortly. “Me? A racist? In case you hadn’t noticed, bunk, but I’m black.”

Meldrick Lewis had worked murders for over five years. He was a big guy with close cropped hair and a neatly kept goatee and a fondness for old pork pie hats. He’s grown up poor in Baltimore, in the Projects, but had worked his smarts into a college scholarship that put him for half a season of the bench of the Toronto Argos, a Canadian professional league football team. He answered an ad in his hometown’s Sun and quickly rose from beat cop to the elite of the elite, the murder police where he did the job in an independently minded, easy going way. That ease was reflected in his voice; even when he was grousing and bitching over the smallest thing, like someone forgetting to refill the ice cube tray’s water, it was with a jazzy sing song rhythm that even Kay Howard found appealing during their everyday shouting arguments.

“You know what I mean,” Kellerman assured his partner. “You look out the windshield and see po’ white trash – which, admittedly, they are – but next time we grab, say, Junior Bunk, and he’s sobbing for his moms and I call him a crybaby, you know, uh, the N-word, you’d probably–”

“Smack you upside the head. Damn straight. Although, Junior?”

“Bad example, Kellerman admitted, "but you get my point.”

“Mikey, you and me both are B'more born and raised. What do they say about it, the northernmost southern city. You’re a smart guy, you can read between the lines.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kellerman waved Meldrick off. “What’s it that Pembleton’s always saying? 'Baltimore’s a brown town,’ 'Baltimore’s a brown town.’”

“Well Frank’s not the first person to turn to for the average nee-gro experience,” Meldrick crowed. “The man listens to Emmy Lou Harris!”

Kellerman nodded agreeably. “See those shirts he wears in the summer, those cotton tennis shirts with the brand name sewn on the chest?”

Meldrick laughed quietly at that. “Yeah, ” he said, slowing at the collection of patrol cars in front of The Zu bar, watching with suspicion the Uniforms organizing and holding onto witnesses with surprising efficiency. “Well, Mikey, when you get down to the nut, you and I are of a stripe. When it comes to crime, we don’t see color 'cause…" Kellerman joined Lewis in proclaiming, ”…in our eyes we know you’re all guilty as hell!“

Lewis and Kellerman entered the Zu in full cop swagger, that "don’t fuck with me attitude” that you had to earn after hanging a badge around your neck and strapping a Glock on your hip. The bar had its lights turned up full, revealing itself to be more a garish, half-finished rec room. There were more than a half dozen Uniforms organizing on-lookers and possible wits with the same unusual proficiency as those out front, one cop asking questions and note taking, another keeping the locals alert with friendly, authoritative conversation. The detectives shared a glance of confusion at the organization of chaos when Mike caught sight of the explanation, nudging Lewis, nodding across the room.

Detective Tim Bayliss, tall, lean, in a rumpled suit that he might’ve just as well slept in, his kinda sorta leading man features palled by insistent worry, signaled Mike and Meldrick. He gave a reassuring touch to the shoulder of the uniformed female rook he was leading through an interview and left her to the wobbly wit. Bayliss flipped through his notes as he headed over to the other two detectives.

He’d worked hard to be a murder police, approaching it at first like a calling – real police work, using your head not a gun, speaking for those who could no longer speak for themselves. On joining the Bawlmer PD, he got a jump getting noticed in Heavy Weapons, QRT and became a player on the Mayor’s security detail. When Hizzonor won re-election, Tim Bayliss could write his own check. The detectives serving Homicide at the time, aware of the politicking, gave him a month to prove himself a total hump but partnering with and learning from the dynamic Frank Pembleton, who normally preferred to work alone, as well as Bayliss’ natural stick-to-it-iveness, saw him become a go-to detective and, in Lieutenant Giardello’s experience, one of his most reliable men. If Tim had a shortcoming in the eyes of the unit, it was a serious one – one that could derail even the most promising career. He regularly fell into what Munch called “the Bayliss Blues;" it occurred when one of his deaths in unsolved red on the board under his name stayed that way despite his best efforts – the "real” murders, not simple street killings. The mother of a tourist family who wandered too far from the Inner Harbor and got shot in the face over a piece cheap jewelry. The life-loving local eleven year old girl who’d been raped with a beer bottle, strangled and dumped in a neighbor’s backyard. Mike Kellerman would remain, to most of the unit, the new guy 'til the next new guy came along; to Meldrick Lewis, who liked to think he could see through anybody, Tim would always be the real new guy.

“Tim,” Kellerman greeted him good naturedly.

“I’m glad you guys are here," Bayliss replied, all business, stabbing his ballpoint in his suit’s breast pocket. He tore a scribbled page from his notes and went to hand one half to Meldrick, the other to Mike. "Meldrick, you’ve got that side of the room. I know they’re braindead but give me, I dunno, three eyewitnesses who can form basic sentences in English–”

“Wait a minute, Bayliss," Meldrick interrupted testily. "Wait a minute.”

“Tim, how’d you get here before us and organize the scene so fast? Kellerman asked.

"Better question," Meldrick argued, "What are you doing here? Gee gave this one to us. Mike’s primary.”

Tim craned his neck, letting out a long breath hoping to relieve the building tension. So, it’s a clusterfuck? Why not? Why expect anything else on a night that had turned sideways before it had even begun. He tried to get through it as quickly and plainly as possible, all the better to get a move on. Tim explained that he and Frank had arrived unusually early for duty call to find no one there, not even Howard or Lieutenant Giardello. Most of day shift had left and the hangers-on were packing up, including their Commander, Neal, who, with most of his crew gone, asked Gee’s guys for a solid. It was a dunker, Neal had said, bar stabbing in Dundalk. Inside and sealed off, beaucoup witnesses, a plain view murder weapon (a six inch hunting knife) at the very obvious crime scene and, get this, not just a suspect in custody at the site but one who freely and happily confessed to the first officer. The only real police work left to Bayliss and Pembleton would be the paperwork.

“Look, Bayliss," Lewis jumped in. "You want a slam dunk? Take it. We both got plenty a red. Jus’ be sure y'keep Gee in the loop.”

“Yeah,” agreed Kellerman, looking around the bar. “Besides, you got this one surrounded." He turned to leave, glancing at Meldrick Lewis. "Our work here’s done, Tonto.”

Meldrick cocked his head at Bayliss as he fell in with Mike. “See ya." He looked at his partner. "Tonto?”

Tim’s chuckle was humorless as he slipped around in front of them. “Uh, ah… ha. I’m gonna need some help here. Lieutenant Neal’s slam dunk turned hinkey or else he’s got a sick sense of humor and stuck me with a phony bill of sale. Everybody’s gonna put some time in on this, so you’d wind up sent here anyway.”

“Come again,” replied Kellerman with an indulgent smile. 'Tim, you’re makin’ the sense of one a your drunk-ass wits.“

"No, Mikey, He’s coming in loud and clear,” Lewis said. “Timmy, Timmy, Timmy,” he said, reaching out and patting the side of Tim’s face lightly. “You done dug yourself up a Red Ball.”

Bayliss leaned away. “Two Red Balls, actually. Both the vic and our suspect have profile.”

“So, here you all are," deadpanned a voice familiar to the detectives. "You get into Charm City’s trendiest new night spot and you conveniently forget to invite good ole Munch." John Munch had arrived and approached his fraternal kin, flapping open his long black coat. Munch didn’t bother with the swagger, didn’t throw even a passing eyefuck. Didn’t have to; Munch’s very being was a "screw you” to at least half of Charm City. He was dogged by J.H. Brodie and his shoulder mounted Betacam. Mush-mouthed Brodie, short in stature but with a big heart, was a journalism student fired from his part-timing at KBW for cooperating with the cops and handing them his raw footage of an important arrest before his news director could turn it into a ratings scoop. Now he worked for the Department, shooting crime scenes for the detectives and District Attorney Ed Danvers for cases that made it to jury trial.

“Wha-hoa!" Munch exclaimed theatrically. "Like I always said, Bayliss – You give good crime scene." Brodie whip panned his camera around and found…

A dark corner of the bar where a small dining table was half overturned with a snapped leg. The surface was slopped in a terrible blend of blood, vomit and what might have been cheap vodka or piss. One of two chairs lay on its side, the other, pulverized. The floor was slick and shiny with blood and beer.

"Bayliss, don’t mean to be a stickler,” Lewis mentioned casually, “but where’s the body? I mean, there is a body to go with this Red Ball?”

Tim had already reopened his note pad, replied distractedly, “Frank took it.”

“Frank took it? Where to?”

“Niagra Falls,” Munch added. “The right corpse finally came along.”

“Scheiner was down here earlier,” Tim said, referring the aging crank from the M.E.’s office. “He described the scene and conditions to Julianna– Uh, Doctor Cox.”

As Brodie circled the bloody broken table, his camera lamp flaring against the detectives and turning them into haloed shadows, Bayliss took charge of the investigation, suggesting Meldrick go round up Frank from the chop shop and go report to Gee, give him the what’s what-what’s up before Captain Gaffney and Colonel Barnfather started climbing all over him and kicking him around.

“Got ya.”

Tim gave the victim and his background to Munch.

“It would be a great start if I knew the name of Mister Red Ball.”

“Actually, Doctor Red Ball," Tim supplied, flipping through his notes. "Doctor Phillip Eldridge. Some kind of celebrity status. He’s a world renowned Internal Medicine consultant and surgical specialist. He was putting in a few weeks slicing and dicing the rich and famous at John Hopkins.”

Munch studied the doc’s photo I.D. from Hopkins. A dark haired somber man in his mid 30s, gaunt-handsome, model handsome, but something about him seemed… off. “Looks familiar,” he said, jotting something in his own notes.

“Mike,” Bayliss continued, “We can figure out who’s primary for the paperwork later. For now, you and I’ll take Julie downtown and get her to write down her confession before she snaps out of whatever’s made her so outta-this-world pleased with herself.”

“Wait a minute,"Kellerman said, cutting Bayliss off. "Julie? What, we’re on friendly first names with our killer?”

Bayliss fought off a perplexed smile, answering, “I won’t deny it. Her upbeat attitude has this weird appeal. She’s an honest to God likable charmer for a psychotic.”

“And what makes –Julie? – so Red Ball worthy on her own,” Kellerman mused, shaking his head. “She carrying anything with her picture on it? Any I.D.?”

As Bayliss reached into his jacket’s pocket, a noise issued from the adjoining space – an electric buzz that grew louder. Munch looked over at the entrance to the games room with his patented scowl.

“Hey! Y'got some cops doing cop stuff over this side! Turn whatever that is off!”

With a measure of bemusement, Tim pulled a card like a driver’s license in a sealed plastic envelope. Kellerman grabbed it and gave it the once over. “Huh.”

Bayliss tried to wave Kellerman off. “Look, before you say anything–”

“Gentlemen," Kellerman said with all seriousness, "Our killer is none other than one Ms. Julie… Andrews!”

As Meldrick laughed, Tim fumbled, “To show you she hasn’t gone completely around the bend, she admitted her name’s an unfortunate circumstance–”

“That’s not all,” Kellerman continued. He held up the I.D. card and its vivid emblem. “Julie Andrews works for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

That’s exactly what it was, a CIA identity card with its eagle-headed logo. Munch reached out and took it from Mike as Bayliss smiled and nodded, acknowledging their shared looks and guilty laughter, assuring them. “All right, all right. I know how it sounds. And, yeah, it’s likely a whole lot of nonsense but, on first pass, she’s not in the system. Not in PRINTRAK or VICAP. She’s not a jabbering loon and her answers sound, I dunno, CIA–”

“Let’s not forget she’s got a charming appeal, right Bayliss?,” Meldrick’s widening grin making his sarcasm clear. Before Tim could reply–

“She’s also, most definitely, a fake,” said Munch, holding the bagged I.D. up to the light in front of Bayliss. “Notice how you can see through it? Opaque plastic? Amateur hour. But the real telltale’s here, the signature.”

Meldrick and Kellerman pushed in to look at the card and better follow Munch. “With a real CIA I.D., the agent signs their name and then the fascistic CIA seal is stamped over the signature, leaving a raised. watermark." Munch swiped his thumb in his rubber gloves over "Julie Andrews” and looked up at Tim. “Smooth.”

“Munch, you scare me,” Kellerman said flatly. That electric buzz from the next room was pulsing up again louder, this time with music. Badly recorded organ disco. Disco with liquid cheese. Munch took a few angry steps toward the games room entrance and shouted with genuine vehemence, “What did I tell you?! Turn that horseshit off, pencil neck?! Who do you think I am, Don Cornelius? I am not Don Cornelius!" Munch felt Bayliss’ lightly restraining hand on his shoulder. "Tim,” he grumbled angrily, “Where’s Julie Andrews’ purse?”

Tim nodded to the back of the saloon. “Bar office,” he answered. “Forensics was on it before I could take a good look. They’re bagging and tagging now.”

As Munch stalked his way to the office, the music grew louder still… and a voice joined in… singing into a distorting microphone…

“What the hell is that?” asked Meldrick. The singing, though clearly untrained, nonetheless had a confidence and clarity…

“I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”

Meldrick shook his head and said with enthusiasm, “I gotta see this." He headed for the next room, Kellerman and Brodie with his camera falling in with him. Bayliss arched his neck back a second, closed his eyes, then called out painfully, "Guys! Come on. I don’t want her turning skittish. She turns and shuts up, she lawyers up." 

Meldrick half-turned to Tim, saying as he walked on, "Timmy, we got screen and stage legend Julie Andrews in the house! I’m gonna miss that?”

Bayliss dragged himself to join them…

“So deep in my heart you’re really a part of me, I’ve got you… under my skin…”

Bayliss slowed, stopping by Mike, Meldrick and Brodie, at camera rest, watching a woman on a makeshift dais singing into a microphone as an overhead glitter ball threw spectra of light. She was, maybe, a young thirty years old, petite and curvy but with a strong, fit body. She was fashionably dressed in Saturday Night Hon pumps with four inch heels and a royal blue pant suit of a style worn by middle management businesswomen downtown working banks or retail but her ensemble was notably more upscale-cool– middle management Armani. Drenched in fresh blood down her front. 

Her features were notably pretty, all soft lines with touches of sharpness in her noble Patrician Roman nose and the pronounced suggestion of haughty cheekbones. But her eyes were wide and blue, her lips bee stung although, clearly, her most arresting attribute was her deep red hair. Auburn tresses smooth and straight, cut shoulder length with a touch of curl at the tips.

“She’s not too bad, y'know…?” Meldrick observed.

“For a homicidal movie nun,” Kellerman exchanged as Munch joined them, sparing a glance at Julie Andrews. He was carrying a small handful of plastic cards between gloved fingers.

“I hate to break it to you Mike, but she isn’t alive with the sound of music,” Munch said. “And I’m thinking that’s not her real name. Same as all these. Classic grifter, had them in a hidden pocket in her bag.”

He handed the plastic to Bayliss who shuffled through them to Munch’s caustic narration. “In addition to being phony CIA, you can see she’s phony Interpol, phony Interstate Highway Sergeant, Dade County. And a phony Mayor concurrently in Missoula Montana, Ann Arbor, Michigan and Riverside, Iowa.”

“That’s a lot of public service,” Mike joked quietly.

“This one’s my personal favorite,” Munch smiled, genuinely amused pointing out the I.D. Tim had just shuffled. “Marita Couvarrubias, United Nations, Special Services. Where’d she pull a name like that from?”

Bayliss frowned as he gave each card a quick once over. They all looked legit to him, but what did he know? He’d never worked Check and Fraud. What was passing strange was that each I.D. was pasted with the same photo and a fairly glamorous one at that, like an actor’s eight by ten.

“Great," he muttered. "Our Red Ball’s not just turned into, well, not a who-done it–”

“It’s more a which-one done it, with one a those rare meaningful "why’s” on the side that give you migraines, Tim.“

"Thank-you.”

“There is one that gets me though,” Munch added, picking from Tim’s hands one of the last of the I.D.s. “Here. I’ve seen enough of these to tell you it smacks of the real deal.”

Mike Kellerman and Meldrick Lewis gave each other uncertain looks as Tim’s frown creased his brow.

“John, you’re positive. It’s not just another–”

“Well, it’s simple enough to find out if it’s copacetic. What I find unusual is the photo. See the difference?" It was obvious. This was no glamor shot – more like a standard overlit passport picture. "And it’s the only card where she uses this alias.”

“If it is an alias,” Bayliss muttered looking closely at the photo of a pretty enough redhead.

“So,” Meldrick needled, “What’s the real name of the knife wielding maniac serenading us? Barbara Streisand? Diana Ross?”

Tim handed Mike and Meldrick the troublesome I.D. It had three simple letters stamped in a block of blue over dates and codes.

“No… our killer’s FBI. She’s a Special Agent named Dana Scully.”

end part 1 of 5 - to be continued


End file.
